Mile End
These were the peasants from Saint Catherine's Hill that clamored beneath the walls of the Tower in the dawn of the Friday morning. Stephen looked out on them from a window above the gate and was 'minded of the waters of the sea, how they lapped about the cliffs of Devon.
“John Ball greeteth you all,”
sang the men,—
"And doth for to understand he hath rung your bell.
Now Might and Right, Will and Skill,
God speede every dele!"
Some of them were drunken, others white and wild for lack of sleep. Ragged they were, armed with mallets, cudgels, cruel knives. A-many had the long bow which all the English must practise to twang; but there was dearth of arrows, and not all the bows were strung. Of all these the men of Kent were best armed and most seemly clad, and they had arisen to right their brothers' wrong, and to make known that all men should be free.
"When Adam delved and Eve span,
Who was then the gentleman?"
they sang; and then because they saw Stephen at the window, they began to cry out to bid the King come to his people. Now the King stood behind Stephen in the shadow.
“If old Archbishop Simon is to scape,” quoth he, musing, “now 's time, the while the people is drawn away hither. Go, one, to the Archbishop, and bid him try the stairs and the water-gate, if so be he may flee in a little boat.”
“The King!—The King!” cried the mob. “Let us in! John Ball hath rungen your bell!”
Stephen leaned out of window and made a sign with his hand that they should cease, and after a little their clamour had sunk to murmurings and he could be heard.
“Ye shall withdraw to Mile End,” Stephen shouted. “Thither will the King come to parley with you. And I make no doubt he shall grant whatsoever ye shall ask in reason.”
Then began the tumult anew:—
“Mile End!—Mile End, to meet the King!” they cried, and there was a surging this way and that; for some would go at once to the meeting-place, others strove to come nigher the walls of the Tower.
“Let us in!—Let us in!” roared these last. “'T is a trap to cheat us o' Sudbury. Mile End, forsooth!—Nay, we 'll parley within the Tower.”
“Tell them there is no room in the Tower for so great a multitude,” said Richard, “wherefore I choose Mile End.—Tell them”—He paused and turned to a page who came in, “Well, didst give the message?”
“Yea, sire; the Archbishop is even now gone down to the water-gate.”
“Tell them,” Richard took up the word anew, “the Tower is theirs to search and to hold after I shall go forth of it to-day. They may enter if they will. But I will not parley with them only at Mile End.”
All this Stephen cried out of window, and presently there began to be a fraying away on the edges of the mob, as a cloud frays.
“Let us go and make ready,” said Richard; his eyes were very bright, he held his head high.
But when he had kissed his mother, and dried her tears, and had bade saddle the horses,—and his half-brothers, Kent and Sir John Holland, were fidgeting, pale, for that he would have them ride with him,—suddenly came into the hall Simon Sudbury, with yellow sweat beading on his brow.
“How now!” cried the King; “methought thou wert scaped by the river?”
“The watch on the hill hath keen eyes, sire. We put forth, but they raised a cry. Was naught for 't but to turn back.”
“But thou must begone!—I say thou must!” Richard exclaimed, stamping his foot. “Christ!—I 've said they may come in and search!” Then he went and caught Simon by the shoulders, and his lip quivered:—
“As regarding that poll-tax, thou wert a fool, my lord,—a fool!—a fool! But thou art a faithful servant, and a true man,—and I love thee!”
His voice broke, and he hid his face in the Archbishop's breast.
“Sire,” said Simon gently, and put both arms about his king as 't were his own son; “do not grieve! I know a way to baffle them. Go thou to Mile End, and leave me here to play my part.”
“Thou wilt surely scape?” Richard questioned.
“Yea,—I shall surely scape.”
Then they went together into the chapel and prayed awhile; and when the King was going out at the door, he looked back to see where the Archbishop stood at the altar making ready the sacrifice of the Mass. John Leg knelt on the steps and Robert Hales,—and there was a certain friar, a friend of John of Gaunt, who served at the Mass.
So Richard rode forth of the Tower, and 't was a Friday in the morning,—and with him Etienne Fitzwarine, and Thomas of Woodstock that was Earl of Buckingham, and old Salisbury, and others,—earls and gentlemen,—and also Sir John Holland and the Earl of Kent, the King's half-brothers; but these, for fear, set spur to horse and departed from the company into the fields.
Meanwhile, in the fields about Mile End the folk came together, a many thousand, with their leaders. Long Will also was there, and Calote. London prentices played at ball the while they waited; country louts sang and cuffed one another; cooks went about crying “Hot pies, hot!” There was a bearward with his beast, making merry. And in the midst of this babel, John Ball and Wat Tyler and Jack Straw were silent. The priest had set his back against a tree, and so stood with folded arms and sunken chin, his eyes gazing out to a vision. Wat paced up and down, restless; anon he lifted his head uncertain, and stood looking down by the way the King must come; anon he gnawed his lip and strode on. Jack Straw, squatting among the roots of a yew, watched those others and bit his finger-nails.
“And what will ye do when the King cometh?” asked Long Will of the three.
John Ball did not hear him, or if he did, he made no sign. Jack leered up at Wat, and Wat stood still.
“How may a man know what he will do till the time come?” he said uneasily.
Will lifted his eyebrows. Jack Straw hacked at the yew tree root with his great knife. Wat walked slow past John Ball and back again to Will, and here he came to pause.
“We shall make certain demands,” he explained in a voice as he were assuring himself,—“we shall make certain demands. 'T is wherefore we are here.”
He shifted from right foot to left.
“And if the King grant all?” quoth Will.
“Richard 's tongue-tied,” sneered Jack Straw.—“No fear!”
“And do not ye desire that he shall grant these requests?” asked Calote.
“Whether the King grant them or no, we shall take them,” snarled Jack Straw. “Are we not here to take them? What is the will of a weakling boy in face of thousands?”
“Wat,” Calote said, tugging at his sleeve, “what is 't thou 'rt minded to do to the King? He is anointed of High God. Oh, Wat, what is 't thou hast in thy heart to do this day?”
“Pshaw!” he groaned, jerking his arm away and clapping both hands to his ears,—“I know not!—I know not! How shall I know till the time come? Leave me in peace!”
And then there came a cloud of dust along the highway, and in the midst of it King Richard, Etienne his squire, and Salisbury, and those others.
When the people saw it they went mad with joy.
“Hath come!—Hath come!” they cried, capering and clipping and kissing. “He is our King, come out to his own people!” And then there went up such shouts as rent the air and could be heard far as London wall. Jack Straw got to his feet and stuck his knife in his belt. 'T would seem the shouting of the people made him dizzy, he staggered. It was a wondrous compelling sound, this cry of joy of ten thousand hearts set at rest. The King had come to them. He belonged to his people.
John Ball and Wat Tyler came and stood with Jack beneath the yew tree, the people surging all about.
“Fools!” muttered Wat.
“Thou fool!” Jack whispered twixt chattering teeth.
“I told thee, truth is better than strategy,” said John Ball. “I would have apprised the Fellowship our purpose to take him.”
Hardly was he heard for the clamour. In the beginning there were only shouts, but after a little there began to be disparted from the waves of sound, words: “Long live the King!—Long live the King!—Long live the King!”—The blessing roared like as 't were a torrent. Calote could see how Jack Straw and Wat spoke one to other, for that their lips moved,—but what they said was lost. They were very white and their hands hanging down helpless. This joy that beat about them, they might not escape from it, and it smothered them.
“How might I tell them?” gasped Wat,—“the maid hath preached love and loyauté.—Is 't loyauté to take him against his will?”
“Wherefore, against his will?” said Jack.
Richard, in the midst of this rapture, laughed wistfully, with arms outspread as to embrace his people, and when they saw this they cried out anew: “God save the King!—Long live the King!—Long live the King!”—And those that were nigh kissed his stirrups and his saddlecloth.
“Mes amis!” he said, and they that saw his lips move began to beat upon that tumult with: “Peace!—Peace!—The King speaks!—Peace!” till the shouting died as the wind drops, and but for a solitary voice cast up fitful now and again, there was stillness.
“What will ye?” Richard cried. "I am here. I have taken Reason and Conscience to be my counsellors:—
'And Reason shall reckon with you if I reign anywhile,
And judge you by this day as ye have deserved.'"
And when they had heard the words of Long Will's Vision, they laughed, and not a few wept for joy.
“Persuade him that he come to us,” whispered John Ball.
“Do thou,” Wat retorted, uneasy. “Thou hast a softer tongue and more learning. Cursed be these fools!”
“Let one speak!” said the King, “and say what the people will have.”
There was pause, rustle, a craning of necks to see.
Jack Straw shook as with an ague fit. Wat Tyler started uncertain, looked at John Ball, and drew back.
“Speak thou!” said the priest, low. “I am under ban of Holy Church,—his guardians will not hear me patiently.”
There began to be a murmur: “Speak!—Speak!” and it waxed louder.
“I 'm a rough man; Jack, thou 'rt the crafty one,—oil thy tongue to persuasion.”
“If I speak now, wilt thou be silent hereafter?” asked Jack. “Art thou leader—or”—
“Thou false hound!” said Wat.
“Where is Wat Tyler?—Where is John Ball?” cried the people; and the muttering began to be a roar. “Speak!—Speak!—To be free!—Speak!”
“Rather fall on those others and carry him off to our midst!” Wat exclaimed, fingering his knife and breathing quick.
John Ball caught his arm.
The throng swayed, and Richard's horse reared.
Then out of the press strode Will Langland, the maker of the Vision Concerning Piers Ploughman.
“Sire!” he said, and his voice was heard so far that the muttering and the swaying ceased,—“sire, we ask three gifts of thy grace; and the first gift is to be free men. No longer villeins and serfs, but free; no longer bound to the soil, but free to go and come, to marry our daughters to whom we will, to grind our corn at our own mill,—to be free! The High God, Emperor of heaven, when he set our father Adam upon this earth, who was this man's master?”
Richard turned his head to look on the Earl of Salisbury:—
“Thy will is our will, sire,” said the old man.
And immediately the King stood up in his stirrups, and:—
“Yea,—we will set each other free,” he cried. “Lo, I strike off your fetters, and I too am free!”
For a space of a minute there was silence, awe; and then the cry, hoarse, shaken twixt wonder and terror. Then silence came again, white-lipped, and there were a-many fainted in their brothers' arms. And that was a long silence.
“Speak!” said Richard huskily to Long Will. “Here 's one grace granted,—name other two.”
“That we may pay a rent henceforth for the land whereto we were bound aforetime. We are not thieves, neither would we be lollers,—we be honest men desirous to till the land. Four pence the acre is the rate we would pay.”
“Ay, ay, four pence!” cried a score of men.
“'T is folly!” whispered Thomas of Woodstock and the Earl of Warwick angrily. “'T cannot be done! Fools!—So paltry price is ruinous!”
“Natheless, let it stand, my lords, and patience,” said Salisbury. “A price may well be changed.—Now, 't is wise to grant all. If the people sees that we dissuade the King, hardly shall we escape alive. God knows I be not afeared o' death, but I would serve the King the best way,—and 't is not by dying.”
“Four pence the acre,” said Richard; “this also do I grant.”
“And the third grace, O King,” said Long Will;—“the third is pardon!” And he went down on his knees, and immediately all that multitude fell down, and some on their faces, crying, “Pardon!”—“Pardon for John Ball!—Pardon!—Pardon!—For Wat Tyler!—For all!—For all!”
“It shall be written that ye are pardoned,” said Richard. “It shall be written that ye are free!”
And then they came leaping about him, weeping, singing, blessing; and he sat in their midst with tears rolling down his face.
“It shall be written!” they cried; “it shall be written!—Bring clerks!” And presently there were set down some thirty clerks, and Will Langland among them, a-scribbling. And so they were busied two hours and more in that place.
Stephen came and leaned on Will's shoulder, and, “Eh, well, my father, what th-think'st thou?” he asked, exultant.
Will stayed not his hand, but with head bent above the parchment he said: “Methinks Parliament will have somewhat to say of this matter. Kings of England may not bind and loose at their own pleasure; though 't is the people that ask. Here 's a riddle.”
“But thou?”—Stephen faltered.
“I spake for the people.”—Then he turned to a ploughman, with, “Here, brother, is thy parchment. Keep it dry, and pray God it may serve thee in time of need. Where is Wat Tyler?”
“He went to the Tower an hour past; said he had business therein.”
Now the King gave also of his own banners, to each county a banner, that the men when they returned to their villages might be known to be King's men on the highway, and no rioters. And a-many, so soon as they had their pardon and parchment of freedom, went back to their own home;—and this was what Salisbury desired. Nevertheless, the most part of the people abode where they were, and when the King set out to return to the city, they were with him, singing and shouting, and he in their midst. But when they were come to Aldgate and turned into the way that led to the Tower, there rode to meet them a soldier of the Tower, that said:—
“Sire, we have taken madame your mother to Barnard Castle Ward, and the Garde Robe, hard by Paul's Church. Will it please you go thither. The Tower is taken and no longer safe.”
“No longer safe?” laughed Richard. “How now!”
“Sire,” said the soldier, “the people have slain the Archbishop of Canterbury, and set up his head on London Bridge.”